The Dying of the Light: Interval

by Kristopher, Jason

  Shaw spotted Liam’s lookouts quickly as they approached the main terminal, noting that they had no weapons. Filthy, clothed in rags, they even appeared to have fleas, judging from the scratching they were doing. How can people live like this?

  The light brightened as they neared their destination, and Shaw felt better as they entered the main terminal room, with its second-story windows unboarded and shining bright with the noon sun. It felt like years since he’d seen it, even though it had only been a few hours. He ordered Evans to make their camp, such as it was, against one side, on an unused and relatively clean section of the second level. He took the opportunity to look out the windows, noting the few walkers still on the ground. He couldn’t see his own plane from this angle, but the devastation that had plagued so much of the world was clearly evident in the city of Christchurch, seen through the big window panes. There were no tall buildings in sight, and the few that were close enough for him to get some detail were burnt and blackened.

  “You’re just in time for our noon meal,” said Liam.

  Shaw jumped, surprised. He’s a quiet one, this Liam, he thought. Then again, he probably had to be to survive the walkers for this long.

  “Thanks, but I’ll stick to our field rations,” he said. He noticed Believers moving amongst the men and women of his group with bowls of steaming soup, and the volunteers accepting, some a bit more hesitantly than others. Still, a hot meal beat rations any day. He moved closer and said, loudly, “Everyone, please. We should really be eating our rations, rather than taking what little food these folks have left.”

  Though Keith and Evans weren’t eating any of the provided soup, the volunteers didn’t agree with Shaw. Arturo was slurping from his bowl, and smiled up at Shaw. “Nonsense, Major. We’re going to be here for some time, it seems only fitting that we accept their hospitality. Perhaps we can share our rations later, or even work together to get the food from the plane.”

  Shaw shook his head and sighed. Civilians. He motioned Evans and Keith over to him. “Excuse me, Liam,” he said to the older man. “I have some matters to discuss with my men. I’ll return shortly.”

  “As you wish, Major,” Liam said, moving away to tend to his flock.

  Shaw led his men to one side, insuring they wouldn’t be overheard. “I don’t like this,” he said.

  Evans looked around. “What? These people?”

  “Yes. First they’re shooting at us, now they’re feeding us… something’s rotten in Denmark.”

  Keith nodded. “I don’t like it, either, but what can we do?”

  “Have a discreet look around. Keep your pistols handy, just in case, but don’t cause a ruckus if you can avoid it.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said, and moved off, casually wandering around. Shaw noticed the Believers bringing the soup out of what he presumed was the kitchen on the first floor and moved towards the stairs. Time to see what’s cookin.’

  He made a show of inspecting the boards on the windows and doors, trying to keep a count of the Believers he could see. He noticed Keith and Evans moving among the Believers and the volunteers, occasionally chatting with them, sharing a story or a laugh. When he was pretty sure all the Believers were in sight, and everyone was looking the other way, he slipped into the kitchen.

  It was dim, lit only by candle-light in a few places. Fortunately, from what he could tell, he was alone, and didn’t hear anyone elsewhere in the long room. The metal table in the center of the room was the preparation area, and he could see a large sheet covering the food, with large soup kettles on a wood-burning stove to one side. Though the stove was out of place and had obviously been moved in at some point in the recent past, it seemed to work well, as steam rose from the kettles in lazy circles, and his stomach rumbled. It had been a long time since he’d had a full meal, and whatever was cooking on the stove smelled good.

  He moved closer to the table, knowing he had to see what was under the sheet. These people had been here for a long time, possibly as long as four years. There was no power, no water, no heat and no food… yet here was soup… So where did it come from? Are they hunting in the woods nearby? Dangerous with the walkers around, but possible. Assuming there are any animals left. As the flashlight played across the table where the sheet had slipped aside, all the pieces fell together in his head, forming a picture that could never be unseen.

  Five minutes later, Shaw exited the kitchen along with Keith and Evans, all wearing grim faces.

  As they left the kitchen, they stopped short. Surrounding them in a loose semi-circle, the Believers had blocked all exits from the kitchen. Three more were guarding the volunteers upstairs with broken pipes or lengths of wood scrounged from who knew where, and all the volunteers were at the railing. Shaw noted that Arturo was holding an improvised bandage to his head, and even from that distance he could see the blood.

  Liam stood in front of the others, facing the three airmen and holding his hands clasped before him.

  Shaw tried not to grind his teeth. “Arturo, you got a good story for me?”

  “They saw you headed for the kitchen, and they started pulling weapons. They took us by surprise, sir.”

  Liam quickly spoke up. “Brother Shaw, we took action only because you and your men killed some of us when we would have met you with nothing but fellowship and sanctuary under the Lord. Have you anything to say for your actions?”

  Evans started forward, but Shaw restrained him, and spoke, his voice loud and strong, meant for the volunteers on the second floor as well as the Believers in front of him. “One of yours died by accident when he got too close to our engines, and the second died through the hand of fate delivering justice for his own foul murder of one of us.”

  The Believers glowered at him, and he could tell he wasn’t even making a dent. That didn’t matter, though. Now that there was no easy way out, the truth might as well be told. “Either way, I find it hard to care about offending those who would eat their own kind.”

  Several of the volunteers gasped. All looked sick, wondering what they’d eaten just minutes before. Even some of the Believers turned a bit green and more than a few hid their faces in shame.

  Liam started to speak, but Shaw’s commanding voice easily overpowered his. “And that’s not even the worst of it!” he said, shouting. “No, no, there is far, far worse yet that you have done, Liam.” Now shaking with rage, Shaw pointed to the old man.

  “You have led these people to their deaths! You, who should have been responsible for them! The woman lying on that table in there—or what’s left of her, anyway—was bitten! She was infected with the prion, Liam!”

  Some of the volunteers passed out, all looked nauseous, and several of the Believers turned to Liam with questioning looks. Liam, for his part, was silent, standing with his head bowed.

  “You know what that means, don’t you, Liam?” asked Shaw. “I’d bet you haven’t told the rest of them, have you? Do they even know? You, with all your preaching of the Darkness and how it’s growing and must be purged. You’ve killed everyone in this room! Don’t you realize that? Everyone who ate… who ate that…” He paused, struggling to get his gag reflex under control. “Everyone is infected, now! They’ve got days, Liam, at most a week, maybe two, before they’re dead and the prion takes control of them. One taste of that soup, and they’re all walkers!”

  The Believers began shouting now, and from above, Shaw could see the volunteers who hadn’t passed out struggling with their insane guards. He could see it happening, and could do nothing to prevent it. Maybe there was never any way to avoid this, he thought. And maybe, just maybe, it’s better this way. For all of them.

  He drew his pistol as the first Believer looked his way and picked up a length of pipe. At that same moment, one of the guards from above screamed as he went over the railing, thrown down by the McMurdo volunteers. Shaw looked back at the Believer in front of him just in time to see the man’s mind snap, to see him make the decision to charge. As Shaw raise
d the pistol, time seemed to slow to a crawl, leaving him in an endless moment of reflection.

  I love you, Jennifer.

  “Major? Major, wake up. ¡Despiertese!”

  Shaw swam up out of the darkness, wondering if he’d someone slipped into Spanish hell by mistake. Cracking one eye, he saw Arturo Onevás leaning over him, a bandage wrapped all the way around his head like an old cartoon about someone going to the dentist. As he was trying to process this image, pain flooded him from all directions, as though his entire body was bruised. He tried to sit up, but Arturo put a gentle restraining hand on his chest.

  “¡Pare! ¡No se siente, todavía! Don’t sit up, you’re hurt.”

  “What…” Shaw coughed and turned his head to the side, looking around. They were in a small dark room, with only the light of a flashlight illuminating the darkness. “What happened? Where is everyone? Where are we?”

  “We’re in the baggage area. The Qantas office, if that matters. Everyone else…” Arturo paused, and Shaw heard the hitch in his voice.

  “Go on, Arturo.”

  “Almost everyone is dead. All of the Believers are dead, those hijos de puta!” He spit to one side. “You and your men killed many of them. My people and I tried to help, but we are not soldiers. We lost many before they died.”

  “My men, Keith, Evans…”

  “Mr. Evans, he ran away. I think his mind was… how you say… broken? He had seen too much. I do not know if he survives. Mr. Keith was killed by the Believers, though he took many of them with him. You were struck from behind as you tried to help him, and I thought you dead. When I discovered I was wrong, I brought you here to keep you safe.”

  Shaw suddenly came to full consciousness, and began frantically checking his injuries. “You are not bitten, Mr. Shaw,” said Arturo, and Shaw relaxed. “I thought to check that first.”

  “I have to get up, I have to see…” Shaw struggled to sit up, despite Arturo’s protests, and made it to his feet, leaning heavily on the counter.

  He opened the door and stepped out, noticing some of the volunteers sitting against the wall nearby. They seem awfully still, he thought. Oh, no…

  He reached back into the office and grabbed the flashlight from where he’d noticed it on the counter during his struggle to stay vertical, and turned it toward the wall. He didn’t think anything could shock him anymore, but he was wrong. As he saw the men and women sitting next to each other, slumped over, and the dry brown residue on the wall behind their heads, he knew what had happened. The gun next to the last person in line just confirmed it.

  “Que Dios se apiade de sus almas, y de las nuestras. May God have mercy on their souls, and ours. They chose to leave this life on their own terms, Mr. Shaw. They had eaten the soup. They did not want to become one of the soulless dead. I could hardly blame them.”

  Me, either, thought Shaw. I would’ve done the same.

  “And now I will take my place with them. Goodbye, Mr. Shaw. If you ever see your wife again, please thank her again for saving me and my people.” There was the click of a pistol’s hammer, and Shaw whirled around, just in time to close his eyes as Arturo took his own one-way trip to the promised land.

  Shaw leaned against the open door, collecting himself. In the span of a few hours, he’d seen men and women he’d worked with for years killed, discovered starving people eating the body of a walker, and now, he was all alone.

  It was a lot to take.

  He thought of Jenny, and how unlikely it was that he’d ever see her again. God, I miss her so much already. How do I deal with this? It was more than a few minutes before he was able to get himself under control, but he finally managed it, and walked down the terminal, occasionally stopping to lean against a support pillar or wall.

  He made it back to the main terminal area, and only glanced at the carnage when he was forced to move a body out of his way as he trudged up to the second-floor area. He gathered what supplies he could find, such as they were, and fashioned a crude travois out of some chairs and an advertising banner so he could carry them. He dragged it down the second-floor walkway where once, thousands of passengers had rushed to catch their flights. He stopped and looked down into the main area once more, just before leaving, and saw Brother Liam’s body. The old man looked peaceful, with almost no marks on him, save for the small bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

  Too easy. For the horror he created, he should’ve suffered more. Shaw shook his head and moved on. I’ll find an office, or a room I can fortify. But up here, on the second floor. In the sun.

  Out of the twenty people who had departed McMurdo earlier that day, he was the only one left. Marooned amongst a sea of death, with no way home. Even if he could get to the plane, there was no way to fly it by himself. But he’d be damned if he’d give up. He wasn’t bitten, he wasn’t infected, and he had the love of his life waiting for him. He’d find a way back, somehow.

  The supplies still on the plane beckoned him, and he knew he’d eventually have to figure out a way to get to them without drawing the walkers at the same time.

  He turned to face the setting sun, feeling it bathe him in his light, as though it were washing him clean. He ignored the walkers roaming aimlessly on the ground outside, ignored the stench from the dead all around him, and closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer to a God he’d never spoken to before.

  Please let me make it back to Jennifer. Let her know I’m all right, and that I’m coming home. Watch over her, and keep her safe. Amen.

  He settled the heavy straps of his pack and improvised travois onto his shoulders and straightened his back. His first priority was going to be finding a defensible room, and time was wasting.

  Chapter Seven

  McMurdo Station

  Two years later; Z-Day + 6 years

  “Now, do you have anything for me on the mutation rate?” Rajesh asked from the computer monitor in the McMurdo genetics lab.

  Jim looked down at his notes, looking for anything new. As he looked up to retort, his eye glanced over the date code on the monitor, and he caught himself. Rajesh was long dead. His hand moved to the keyboard almost of its own volition, pausing the video playback.

  Has it really been five years since then? he asked himself, looking at the now still and silent image of his friend.

  Rajesh Mehra had been studying the prion from India, communicating with Jim over the last flagging useful parts of the Internet before it, too, finally died.

  He hadn’t actually seen Rajesh die, but his friend had been worried for some time that, after Z-Day, the religious zealots who’d burned so much of his country to ash would find his lab and he, too, would die. But he’d kept sending Jim data regularly, until one day there was… nothing.

  Atkins stood, the notes slipping from his hand as he backed away from the computer, all the pain and rage and anguish of those first days coming back to him. He looked around the room, at all the equipment, the notes, the charts, the samples, all of it useless, now. None of it mattered, any more. None of it would ever matter, now that everyone had given up on the Christchurch expedition ever returning.

  They said they would send word by satellite if they could. They said they would come back for us. I would’ve heard if they had sent anything. Sabrina would’ve told me.

  Two years they had been gone, and nothing. No sign of them, no transmissions, no great engines splitting the sky with their screams. But there was nothing. No food.

  I am so sick of vegetables and fruits and mystery meat once every three days. I need food, dammit. Real food, not this.

  Suddenly, it was all too much for him to take, and he threw everything on his desk to the floor. Monitor, more notes, coffee mug, all of it. The crash of breaking glass and shattered plastic sang in his soul, and he knew that he couldn’t stop there. It was a big lab, and his eyes gleamed with its destruction.

  The photo was old, and worn, and had been handled many times. The edges were curling, and more than a few tears stain
ed the surface, marring the colors, but the man in the photo could clearly be seen. Wearing one of the traditional military caps of the Russian tank divisions, he stood tall and proud next to his vehicle, a forty-seven-ton T-90 main battle tank. He had the square jaw, piercing gaze, and proud mien Tatiana liked in her men.

  Oh, Vasily, my dear husband, where are you? she thought, yet another tear falling on the photo. I miss you so. Perhaps I will see you when I come home.

  Tatiana Zavrazhny was beautiful in her own right, a perfect match for Vasily. Tall and blond, she was the woman most men pictured when they thought of Russian women, and many at McMurdo had longed to ‘ease her pain,’ as they put it. More than one woman, too. And while she was not averse to a warm body of either sex next to hers, no one could ever take the place of her Vasily.

  She replaced the photo in her trunk’s false lid, and looked at the much-folded transmission slip she’d received so many years ago that usually joined the photo. She had no need to remove it. The decoded words were burned into her mind.

  By any means necessary, you are to return to Moscow. You are to destroy any state equipment remaining behind, and insure the destruction of all state secrets. Should you be captured or detained and unable to avoid interrogation, you are to use any means necessary to avoid the revelation of state secrets.

  —Grigori Mostovoi, Director Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki

  In truth, the orders had been unnecessary. She would have tried to go home regardless of her orders, because that was where Vasily was. She had waited, and she had failed once already when she was not chosen to go to Christchurch with the others on the Americans’ plane. Now, she might never leave, but she would always be waiting. And with the satellites between here and Russia still operational, she still hoped to get word to or from her homeland.

  She had been working on one of the other satellite operators, Vincenzo DiLaurio, for months now, and had finally let him into her bed. His snores still haunted her, though he had been gone for hours. He was proving to be more difficult to manipulate than she had expected, but she was sure she could—